A Spark in a Sea of Grey
by AZSkyrider
Summary: The last few seconds of And Straight On Till Morning as told from the mind of one Killian Jones. Memories can be brutal, but looking back at the events of the day Killian decides that some things might be worth a little pain...


**Disclaimer: I don't own them. But I wish I did. Title adapted from Coldplay's song 'Up With the Birds'  
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"_What the hell are you doing here?"_

Swan's first words to me as I came down the metal gangplank upon my return to Storybrooke echo in my head now. It's a bloody damn good question.

Her surprise at my sudden return couldn't possibly have begun to equal mine. At the time, _"Helping"_ was about the only straight answer I could give, though I realize she was asking for a bit more than that. But now, straining at the helm, trying to remain aboard the Jolly Roger as well as keeping her sailing straight as she heaves in the violent sea, I find myself wondering just how much help can really be given.

It's not these rough seas nor the gaping maw of the portal we're destined to fall through that cause me such doubt. Hardly. I've certainly sailed the Jolly through worse. The only feeling I get at the thought of navigating the treacherous waters at her helm is a thrill of reckless anticipation. This type of adventure and danger is what I once thrived upon, what I lived for before Milah's death. No, navigating the portal is not what causes me doubt. Instead it's the destination that sends chills of trepidation into my heart.

"_Where is that? Where have they taken Henry?"_

It's the question dear Queen Regina asked me not ten minutes ago...demanded, really. Worried for her adopted lad as she may be, she still retains a sizable portion of her haughty regal airs. Once a Queen, always a Queen, I suppose…

Where indeed...I'd be lying like a dog if I said I didn't begin to regret agreeing to this little adventure as we watched the crocodile's vile blood swirl in the sphere, taking form to reveal the very place I never wanted to see again. '_Never._' Oh, the irony of that one little word is not lost on me, I assure you.

Where's the lad, you ask, dear Queen? Where gullible young children dream of flying to. Where lost boys are never found. Where childlike happiness is glorious in the daylight and absolute horror at night. Where the promise of youth is tainted with the curse of loneliness. Where all should fear the dark, for the shadows that lurk there. Where _He _is king, and all others tremble at the sound of his name. Where?

"_Neverland."_ Where sodding else?

It was then that I began to consider the possibility that my new sense of purpose and desire to live might be coming to me a bit too late to matter. And for once, as I locked eyes with Rumplestiltskin, the man I had hunted for more than two hundred years, the man I was sworn to kill only a few short hours ago, I realized that for the first time in our sordid history our thoughts are nearly the same. _Why the bloody hell couldn't it have been anywhere else?_

The Crocodile…True God, how my blood still seethed and burned to watch him, sauntering across the Jolly's decks. Cane, limp, simpering smirk, and all.

Willingly offering the services of the Jolly Roger to Swan in attempt to rescue her son was one thing, but the realization that I'd be sharing the space with the one monst—_man_ I loathe so entirely promises to push me to the limits of my sanity.

"_When all this is over and I know the Crocodile is dead, for good and all, I'll have nothing to look forward to. My life will be empty."_

It wasn't a lie. The ragged, bitter emptiness I felt when I'd thought Rumplestiltskin dead was not the sweet taste of victory that I'd expected. It was deadening reality that caused me to consider my life and its worth in ways I'd never bothered to before.

Because... _"Staring death in the face has made me realize that if there's one thing I want more than my revenge, it's my life."_

I still hate him to the core of my bruised and blackened heart; still feel the hot iron fist of rage burn in my belly when I so much as look at him, a beast of vengeance within me roaring and tearing to be released upon his cold scaly heart. But for now, I bury it, caging it inside myself like a maddened dog. Because for the moment at least, his presence appears to be required.

And for our first nonviolent encounter, I'd like to think I comported myself rather well, under the circumstances.

"_So…are you done trying to kill me?" _

A valid question. And my answer was civil enough, I thought. And true. For now, at least.

"_I believe so."_

I'm still not entirely certain what I expected in return. Grace? Gratitude? Neutrality? Mutual hatred? Mutual silence? Mutual silent hatred? To simply ignore and avoid each other's presence the whole way? Nay, truthfully I expected none of these alternatives, the latter of which, I might add, would have been my personal preference.

The response I received instead from the wretched creature was his signature reptilian hiss, laced with both sarcasm and blatant hostility.

"_Excellent! Then you can live." _

Well. There's that damned fist in my gut.

He's not planning to make this transition an easy one for me, is he? Well enough. But really, did I expect any less? No, not actually.

I bury again the raging beast within me that cries out for his death, controlling it by pledging to do all I can to carve a hook-sized hole in his neck if he so much as waves a finger the wrong way. Dark One and Queen he and Regina might once have been, but I remain the captain of my own ship. Revenge and bloodshed may not now be my priority, but it's still an attractive option from time to time…

I refuse to acknowledge his presence now where he stands ahead and to my right, grasping the rigging to stay aboard. I'm quite certain we could manage to find the boy on our own once we reach Neverland. Few know its waters better than I. Would it be too much to ask of my newfound resolve, I wonder, to pray a wave sweeps the reptile overboard on our way through the portal? I'll risk it.

"_I can change..."_ I swore to Bae. And change I can. But it will still take every ounce of willpower I have not to attack Rumplestiltskin on sight. Two hundred years of all-consuming hatred doesn't simply vanish in an instant just because you suddenly will it to. No matter how attractive the idea of letting it go is at the time.

It occurs to me to realize suddenly how trying our journey might turn out to be. Two rival queens, one ill tempered, free-fisted prince, two desperate mothers, and one rotten Crocodile, sworn enemy to the Jolly Roger's captain. All in the same crew. In Neverland.

This little jaunt promises to be all shades of madness.

"_We're doing this. It may be stupid, it may be crazy, but we're doing it."_

Swan's words echo again in my mind and I stiffen my resolve. Aye. We are indeed. And it's both stupid _and _crazy.

Now, as the Jolly is drawn in by the pull of the bean portal, my mind is yanked suddenly to the present by a hearty shove from the sea. The circular rushing tide of the portal hits the Jolly Roger broadside, and it takes all the strength in my body and mind to hold her together, keep her going. Straight in. Straight down. Straight on.

The wind whips and tears at her sails and I find myself struggling to see and stay upright. I'm blown hard to port and I plant my feet, leaning into the helm with all my might, my teeth grit against the violent wind and churning sea. The strain sends a jolt of pain throbbing through my still recovering injuries and down into my legs, but the pain only acts as clarity, allowing me to focus on the daunting task at hand. One very small lapse of concentration on my part and we'll all find ourselves getting very well acquainted with the silt at the bottom of Storybrooke's bay, enchanted ship or no.

Finally, inevitably, we reach the edge… and time stops moving forward. For a moment the Jolly is fairly flying, hovering in the open air above the bottomless portal below. Adrenaline surges through my chest and veins at the feeling. The weightlessness of flight overwhelms my senses and lightens my spirit. I'm buoyed up even as the Jolly begins to descend by a glorious feeling I relish to the very marrow of my bones. Flight. Oh, how I've missed the freedom of this.

As time slows and the glory of flight pounds through my veins, a strangled gasp is uttered directly behind me and I instantly recognize the voice. Instinctively I turn my head, and look directly into the eyes of Emma Swan.

I'd be lying if I said the sight of her right now doesn't hit me like a blow and take my breath away, though a firm portion of my mind tries to convince me it's simply the effects of the fall.

There's something about the strength she exudes, her determination, her passion that I find myself respecting and admiring time and again. And right now is no exception.

She's straining, clinging desperately to the main boom. The deck is slick from the mist of the roiling sea and her boots are slipping precariously beneath her. But as I've said before, Swan's a tough lass. She holds on, every muscle in her slender body rigid in the effort to keep herself upright and hanging on.

Her teeth are bared in a grimace against the biting wind, delicate brows drawn with the intense concentration of remaining steady. If she's at all afraid, her expression betrays none of it. Instead, I read a fraction of surprise and excitement in her eyes that seems to match my own. She's experiencing this kind of flight for the first time, I realize, and I feel a small grin tug at the corner of my lips at her reaction.

She steadies herself, raising her eyes from the deck to meet directly with mine before glancing quickly away again.

It was only for a second, but it was enough. The expression in them sends a chill of understanding through me. She is every ounce determination, strength and a certain defiance I suspect she directs at every obstacle that claims she cannot move farther forward. But there's an edge of fear she's battling back, a desperation, a worry that she dares not allow to take hold. It takes me a split second to understand the exact terms of that dread she hides, and I feel it seep into my own veins unbidden.

"_I just don't want him to be alone. I don't want him grow up the way I did…"_

Alone. Something I sense we are both far too familiar with.

I find myself suddenly thrust back in time, recalling our climb to the giant's lair.

"_You don't want to abandon him the way you were abandoned." _

Abandoned…

I read her like the open book she is. She's afraid that the one thing she swore never to do to her son has happened anyway. Afraid that we'll fail, that he'll be lost forever, living an eternity with the thought that no one cared enough to come for him after all. Just as she did, just as Baelfire did…just as I did.

Recognition eats away at the edges of my own soul and I taste the bitterness of her desperation myself, tinged by my own broken memories. Memories of loss, grief, loneliness and abandonment, coupled with the burning emptiness of discovering fresh revenge has once again been left unsated.

"_I've spent many years in Neverland. The home of the Lost Boys. They all share the same look in their eyes, the look you get when you've been left alone…"_

My jaw aches and I'm gritting my teeth now against the painful and unwanted recollections. Bloody hell, something about this thrice-cursed day has raked open all the old wounds in my soul, baring them and salting them with a freshly throbbing sting. But if I'm honest, it's almost a welcome feeling. A healing pain has begun in my bruised heart. Now for once, after so many years without Milah, carrying the weight of her emptiness, chasing revenge for having her torn from me so brutally, I feel like there's perhaps more to look forward to.

I bring myself back to the present and my gaze is suddenly caught by Emma's hair. The odd wind caused by the spiraling waters of the portal blows her loose tresses straight back behind her, setting the intricate strands to dancing like a pale flame. The eerie blue light of the portal mingles with the last pure rays of sun from above, illuminating each thread of hair with golden light. It glows vividly against her coal-black coat as if it has its own light...Its own magic.

I'm remembering the one short moment I held those strands in my hand, feeling the softness of them like liquid in my hand. I have a feeling that I could easily become obsessed with her hair if I allowed myself the opportunity, watching it dance like a banner in the fading daylight like it is now.

My eyes travel from those flying strands to take her fully in. Just her, just…Emma, and now I'm suddenly struck by another thought that sets my skin to tingling with an unfamiliar emotion.

It's not just the sunset in her pale hair that seems luminous. _She _is luminous.

She doesn't physically glow, of course, but a sort of odd internal spark shines from her, and a reeling recognition of the light's source hits me. It's…_hope_.

Emma Swan's light is transcendent, constant, unwavering, and I suspect she is completely unaware of its very existence. It fairly radiates out of her even in the depths of her anxiety for her lost lad, flowing around her like the golden strands of her hair, a softly pulsing, blowing beacon of pure hope and possibility. The very things I accused her of being shed of in the stupidity of my anger after she left me at the top of that blasted beanstalk.

I know now why she felt she had to do it, understood even then, but I still was not quite over it. Not till now. Because now my embittered heart is buoyed up by two kinds of weightless flight. That of the physical body, and that of the hope-filled spirit.

It flows from her like rivulets of liquid, eagerly reaching its tendrils out to me like some strange radiant vine. I feel myself waking up to the possibility of emotions I've kept buried, smothered, etched out like the symbols in the wood of the helm behind me. Emotions that have been steadily rising since early this morning as I watched Greg Mendell and his coldhearted wench Tamara condemn an entire town to certain death. Hope soaks into my soul, soothing the old wounds that have so recently been reopened, making me feel as if I might someday be whole again. Perhaps not today, but as I am considering the possibilities standing in front of me now, I can wait. Waiting has never been a problem for me.

"_I thought you didn't care about anyone but yourself?"_

"_Maybe I just needed reminding that I could…"_

Seeing her brilliance, I suddenly feel the same thing I did as I tried to leave Storybrooke with the magic bean. The way I felt as I looked down at the scarred wood of the Jolly's helm with the purloined bean in my hand, making my choice to return, finally closing my hand around something small but solid, something real, something magical…

"…_Full of hope…"_

The very possibility of something beyond the cloying bitter aftertaste of vengeance.

"_You can be a part of something…"_

Fate has once again offered me this chance to reach beyond the cold loneliness of vengeance and loss and I find myself eagerly seizing what I once let slip from me when I allowed Baelfire to slip from me all those years ago. Only this time, it's in the form of his son, his legacy. Strange how things lead us back to the start when we least expect them to…

"_Don't let him grow up the way I did…" _Emma's voice pleads again in my memory, and an odd compassion moves me.

No darling, the way _we_ did. It won't happen. Not so long as I stand ready to make amends. We'll get her son back for her sake, for Bae, and for all that remains of Milah's lost love…though hellfire itself should bar the way.

Emma raises her head and I suddenly find myself looking deeply into her eyes. She looks back, defiance and determination glowing there like embers. I soften my expression and nod once, hoping she can read my newfound resolve in them.

She steadies herself again as the Jolly sways, her moment of flight beginning to give way to the plummet. I grip the wheel harder with my good hand, leaning farther into my hook to keep her from tipping keel-over-sail in midair. There's little more that I can do now that we're falling through the eye of the sea. The rest is up to the portal and to the Jolly Roger's enchanted hull.

Emma slips a little, then rights herself, eyes never leaving mine. She waits a moment, studying me deeply, and returns the nod.

"_You and I, we understand each other."_

I can feel a small, utterly ridiculous smile slide itself over my lips unbidden, and I break our contact, turning once again to the spiraling blue-green of the portal before us. The exchange took place in no more than a matter of seconds, and now, if time was slowed for a moment, it snaps back into motion far too fast.

The Jolly dips in her flight, falling straight down. Her sails catch the wind as she descends, unfurling instantly with a deafening, thunderous crack. I hear a vicious tear from the main and absently take note of it, mentally apologizing to my poor Jolly girl. She will need mending when we reach the other side, but that hardly matters now. I still have to keep her upright. I'm thanking providence, not for the first time, that the Jolly Roger's wood is enchanted, allowing me to sail her in air as well as if she were still ensconced upon the sea. This feat would be impossible with any lesser vessel.

Above us, the sky vanishes, the ocean closing up over us with a roar, sealing us away into chilling darkness. In a way, it feels like being buried at sea. And still we're falling, sailing perilously through to the other side

I can almost feel Emma behind me like a golden-haired beacon, her strange, brilliant light warming my soul and illuminating the way as we fall through darkness. In a moment she'll catch her first glimpse of Neverland, and I find myself wondering what her expression will be like when she lays eyes on the undeniable beauty of the place. A place that haunts me…a place where the lost are never found…where nothing grows old…where happiness used to abound and possibly might again…where we will find her lost son…a place that is, in one twisted way or another, home.

_~Finis_


End file.
